By: Magdalena Mihaylova
There is desire found in every part of the body when you are in love (image created by AI).
Lip
And as you pout your lip at me, stubborn, I feel
I have no other purpose in this world than to provoke
that petulance. A pouted lip shining like
stained glass. I want to balance on its midnight glow,
glide across its warm wetness like a giggling
child on winter ice ponds.
Finger
Rested on cheek. A raised eyebrow to match.
We are doing karate with words, our conversation
like light dancing, tiptoes,
your footsteps in the morning,
gentle on wooden floors. And that finger
is taunting me, pressed against your face with thoughtless
purpose. I want to grab it, press it to my own face,
my own skin, so deep that it leaves an imprint of
everything that you are made of on each of my
single peach-fuzz hairs.
Arm
How can it exist so recklessly? There,
casually behind your head like it knows something
that I don’t. You lounge like a man should:
without worry, effortless. I usually despise this.
But somehow, your careless arm becomes my
childhood bed, a blue cotton towel on a
windless beach. An arm cradle built for
nights like this, so cold that an exposed bicep
feels like a nearby fireplace when I rest my
head on its relaxed recline.
Chest
Your build was foreign to me after years
of skinny ex-boyfriends.
I always felt safe in their length, the lack
of intimidation in what is flat, delicate. A broad
chest is a threat, a reminder of my smallness,
my inferiority. But when we lay on your bed,
your tanned skin spread out in front of me,
still warm from the sun, salty from the ocean,
I feel as vast as the stretch of sand you were raised on,
the rough coast we fell in love on.
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